Child of the Long Road  2005
by Celestial Sunberry
Summary: In a grungy city ripe with autumn, a new adventure starts.


It must have been late autumn the first time I arrived here, lost in the park in a slushy rain. Never before had my eyes gazed upon such a dreary world. Litter seemed to cover the place, even among the twisted black leaves and branches and under the gum infested benches. The earth seemed suffocated, poisoned from the smell and grime of the city. Broken chalk rolled by as well as tipped over trash cans. I kicked the scattered garbage out of my way and tried to take shelter under the weasel thin park trees.

Clutching my coat, I walked through the grass, the scent of wet sidewalks and rain making me sneeze. I stepped off the scratchy walkway and pressing the roll of bills inside my pocket into my palm, I hailed a taxi. I did not hear the click of glass hitting the pavement as I got in.

I did not notice my misfortune until I had settled into a large hotel of antiseptic halls and man-made potted plants dangling from the ceiling. Frustrated, I struggled to dry off my wet clothes beside a holographic fire that produced a certain amount of heat.

The next morning, after a fitful night of half-sleep, I managed to purchase a set of plastic attire at the gift shop on the second floor with a political smile. After adorning my new attire, I gave a warm smile to the guards, and departed for the park.

With a ladylike demeanor I scoured the park, hoping that some criminal hadn't stolen and pawned it off downtown. But I felt that with effort, I would find my prize.

"Looking for something, miss?"

I don't recall looking at his face then. In fact, I don't remember being surprised or frightened, only dazed.

"They sold it downtown last night."

Imagine my surprise, then, because I had to look at the man, knowing he could be an accomplice. But what I saw was not a criminal but a man haggard and wise, dressed in homely clothes. Even in his meager fashion, he held himself like a king, and under his arm was some art supplies.

"I saw you drop it yesterday," he continued, ignoring my silence, "I know the shop it was sold to." He rolled back his shoulders nostalgically. "I could lead you to it for a price."

"A price?" I blinked. Somehow I managed to feel pity instead of menace.

"Let me paint you, dear lady. It would be an honor to paint someone as authentic looking as you."

"Very well," I nodded and adjusted my collar. It could not hurt to pose for such a dear old man.

I sat under a withered park tree. I unpinned my red curls, according to his instruction, and listened to him speak. The bottle didn't matter now.

I hardly noticed how the artist sat down to pencil in the drawing nor how his quivering hands dearly held the gum eraser. All I could feel was the growing feeling, a growing friendship, between us, as we spoke. When the talk died down, I noticed that this air was unlike any other I had ever felt before. You couldn't tell the difference between nature and mankind. You couldn't tell who lived here or not, for the denizens carried themselves in calm neutrality to newcomers and towards the metropolis itself.

There were the gang bangers, the thieves, the classic businessman to the grunting taxi driver passing by. Some mothers scolded children while others passed by in silence. Even though the people seemed changeless in their own fashion, the city itself seemed a glare of change, from honking horns in traffic to billboards flashing advertisements of new technology to hydroponic dinners ready-to-eat.

"Do you like the city, miss?" he asked, winking at me.

The smell of the air wasn't clean nor sharp but muted, kind of like a candle that has just been snuffed out. It wasn't displeasing, even with the muted notes of car exhaust and the blend of metallic rain folded with the tang of the sea, but it made my nose itch. Somewhere across the street the smell of food wafted by, rotten and fresh.

"It's like the sea," I replied, feeling a mystic power coming over me.

He smiled at me, then. I had nothing poetic for him to say but my words were sufficient.

"And only a conch would know but a third of its mysteries," he scratched his hand and grimaced, as if he had some kind of arthritis, and furrowed his brows, much like a father reproving his child. And so much like a father he was with his subtle air of wisdom and age. Pulling his palm tree green scarf about his neck a little tighter, he brushed away the eraser scraps.

"If a conch had words to speak."

"Words can never express the very heart of our souls," he spun the canvas around for me to see with a sense of peace and joy. From his humble hands he had stained, as others might say, was a perfectly clean canvas but in my eyes, it was a masterpiece. The breadth of my vitality, fierceness, and some kind of ethereal beauty caused shivers to travel down my spine. My curls were longer, as in the days of yore, and instead of my plastic, new age clothes I wore a long velveteen dress. What I saw behind me, instead of a stark tree, was a castle in the distance surrounded by trees.

I covered my mouth, letting my breath hasten away the cold from my fingertips.

"Genius."

"Do you like it?" he chuckled and I felt that the question didn't seem rhetorical. It was in the way he asked it, as if somewhere inside his heart was he bursting with happiness encircled with laughter.

"Ah," I could not seem to respond quick enough. _Englesap. _That was all I could think. Castle Englesap.

"It's inspiring," I said after a pause.

"I'm glad you find it that way, ma'am," he said in a slightly subdued tone, his right eye twitching lazily. But then with a lightened heart, he said, "I can only hope that my work brings joy to the sorrowing soul."

"May I buy you some dinner?"

"Dinner?" his parched lips stretched into a large grin. "No one has ever taken the time to do that. Of course, my dearest lady, for I would linger in your company. However, you are not obligated to do so."

"Obligation is not what it is when one wishes to give freely to another."

He escorted me straightaway to a café near the pawn shop in the poorer part of this electronic world. The pawn shop was closed. Instead of spoiling my mood by condemnation, we slipped into a faded compartment at the back of the café where we could engage in small talk without being heard. The waitress skated by on neon orange roller blades that clashed with the pastel purple code colors of her outfit. I ordered a small cup of hot chocolate and a roasted ham sandwich but encouraged the old man to get something heartier for his stomach. Without greed he ordered a salad and a large bowl of potato chowder with extra crushed red pepper, if you please.

I came to learn, as we waited for our food, that he often drew those who passed by. Most enjoyed the opportunity to have themselves immortalized, wether they be vain or humble. But those who were of blackened heart, filled with vengeance or all matter of evil, shone darkly in his work. To those of beauty and virtue, for those who still held their moral standards high, he created masterpieces.

The waitress brought our order and as I reached tentatively for my cup, I told him that I had been slightly surprised at how well he had done. Nevertheless, I continued, I was not angered, as some might be. I didn't state then that I wondered how he knew where I came from but let it pass along with our meal as we ate.

By the end of our dinner, both of us were set aside pondering, I thinking of him as a saint with credibility beyond this world. In such circumstances, living in his own minuscule, rented studio, working as a janitor for a hotel near the heart of the city, I was humbled by his simplicity. He was only a part of what he dreamed to be but in the heavens, I am sure he was treasured as a worthy soul of God.

Once we had parted and I had returned to the hotel near the witching hour, I found the door to my room slightly ajar, which was unusual, seeing as the doors were automatic. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Among the sullen shadows bathing in the moonlight, I pulled back stiffly, searching for an intruder about the room. The impression of evil left when I cried out with frost in my voice, "Get thee hence who walketh in my room!"

I flipped on the light, shivered, and gave a small shriek at what I saw. There sat the canvas, fully painted with its genius strokes, of me sitting before the Castle Englesap. Why had he given me this painting he had so painstakingly done?

I hardly noticed my tears. Somewhere, in the grave of my heart, memories resurfaced of days spent in its caressing halls. But that was all it was. A memory. And so were the memories of the mobs murdering my family and subtly gaining entrance into the government dwelling. And that was only two years ago.

Two long years and worlds away.

At the bottom of the canvas was a note card. It read:

"So far away from home, listen to me now, live and rest in peace, child of the long road."

It was part of a poem my father used to recite to me at bedtime. I clasped my throat and the tears flew faster, heavier. Upon further inspection, trying to see through my teary vision and among sobs that somehow were escaping my throat, I took the card and turned it over. The date it had been written was two years ago from this hour.

If the artist had known who I was, knew my sorrow, then he was surely a servant of God on High, sent to ease my suffering.

The bottle would be his.

"Sir?"

He didn't even turn.

"This is for you."

"There's no need."

"Please, take it, with all grace. You knew."

"You, child of the long road, need it more than I."

"You already gave me what I needed."

His shoulders sagged then. "Once I looked for that which you hold but by the grace of God, I have found a different path. I have beheld children like you, lost, looking for a path that will lead them away from the pain they once knew."

"Then you are an angel?"

There was a pause, a moment, in which the air was thick and still and a Spirit that was divine, entered the room.

"Every child of God is an angel in disguise."

"Thank you for what you have given me."

"Thank only the Lord on High, Lidia. Go and build your home again. Go back. Wander no more but teach and praise the truth of God, as I have always taught you. Teach the people to love the earth, to nurture their souls with the Word of God."

He turned, then, and in his eyes I saw the soul of my father an in the line of his mouth I saw his happiness and his victory.

"The bottle of life, filled from the ashes of Englesap and cleansed with the rain of another world will bring its rise again. Peace be unto you."

Then his soul depart and I wept for the releasing of my soul and the promise of a road filled with the glory of God.


End file.
